


wipe your hands of misfortune

by GStK



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22400533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GStK/pseuds/GStK
Summary: wring them in prayer, hope the memories and the blood don't stain.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	wipe your hands of misfortune

**Author's Note:**

> felix has ptsd and suffers from spontaneous flights of violent imagery. take care of yourself.

sylvain frustrates each and all of his efforts to die.

sylvain is a lance that brings him down to his knees. sylvain is a hand that welcomes him back up. sylvain is an arm settling over him as he stirs in the morning, beckoning him again into the dim world of tangled legs and sheets. he’s two eyes that smirk and one mouth that tells a thousand lies. he is a hooked finger dancing through the knots in felix’s hair and a perked ear tuned to every sound the boar makes.

“felix,” his one and only attendant calls, because felix had dispensed with titles and fired all but one of his staff when he was made duke, “the margrave is here.”

felix carefully finishes the _u_ in his latest _i hate you_ , words graceful and pointed on the page. his attendant, with the same spiteful patience, allows him to waste minutes of the margrave’s time. when felix is satisfied, he pushes his chair back, rising to his feet with a distinct clatter. “great timing,” he says, his face a calm snarl. he picks a sword from the wall rather than the one his attendant has offered out to him. “i was just going to send him a letter.”

sylvain is waiting for him in the entryway, leaning against the wall rather than taking a seat like anyone else. (there is no one else. annette, ingrid, they visit sometimes, but they come rarely and the winters are harsh.)

felix slings his sword at him. with disgusting delicacy, sylvain rolls his head to the side, blade sinking inches deep into the wall beside him. “hello to you too.”

felix descends the short flight of stairs, throwing off his blue robe, catching the second sword his attendant throws him on the way down. “uninvited pests get put to the test.”

sylvain raises his brows. “you’re a poet now, are you?” he physically _slaps_ the impact of the sword away with the back of his gauntlet, shaking the reverberations out of his fingers a few seconds later. they meet again on the end of a dagger, and felix growls, like sylvain has just spat on the grave of his ancestors. “come on. i left my spear with my bag!”

“then go get it,” felix taunts, walking sylvain backwards with patterned swings of his sword.

the snow outside is blowing itself into a flurry. it sinks deep at times, but felix knows just where to place his feet, knows by instinct when the next bump is coming. sylvain trips his way over to the stables.

a boy with black hair is sitting by sylvain’s horse. he jumps to his feet, already startled by the sound of clashing blades. sylvain waves his free arm at him, yelling out gritty commands -- “aymer! get my weapon, would you?”

“margrave, what’s--”

“you were going to make him sleep in the stables?” felix asks, stalling his assault when he pins sylvain to the wall with a sword at his neck. sylvain diverts his eyes to his little… apprentice.

“you have enough hay in here--”

felix wrenches his dagger away from him and stabs it into the wall next to sylvain’s neck. sylvain sighs.

“i wasn’t going to bring him in and let you accidentally stab him,” sylvain protests. with another wave, aymer comes nervously into the fray, providing sylvain his fabled weapon before skittering back.

“i know exactly where to aim. are you trying to really trying to claim--”

“no, no,” sylvain says quickly, pole in front of him. the silence hangs, so he furrows his brows and says, “yes?”

felix catches him across the shoulder, in the gap between armour and chainmail.

“yowch! cut it out!”

“get him inside, you blithering idiot,” felix sighs. “venetia will get him fed and clothed.”

“how about me?” sylvain says hopefully. felix could cut him on his stare alone, but sylvain is too stupid for that, so it glances off.

“she’ll kill you in your sleep. the disappointment of killing you has to come from me.”

“do we really have to duel?”

“yes.” felix lowers his sword. “after your… boy gets inside.”

* * *

fortunately, the boy does not fall over shivering dead before he reaches the doorstep, and venetia manages to gather him up in her judging stare. she finds him wanting, but aymer seems to know well enough to follow when she turns around, her two brown braids lashing across her shoulders like a whip. 

“please do not stare at my ass, margrave,” she requests coldly, aymer looking over his shoulder uncertainly. they disappear into the fraldarius home to the sound of sylvain’s laughter.

they’re supposed to duel, and sylvain readies his stance. felix stares at him until he relaxes. “who is that?” he demands. “your son?”

“i can do a lot of things, but i can’t pull a twelve-year-old out of my hat,” sylvain says.

“who knows? maybe your impropriety finally caught up to you.”

“as impressive as that would be, it’s a no.” sylvain rolls on his heels, angling his body to the side. “he’s just a kid from one of our towns. my town,” he corrects, when felix raises a brow. “he’s an orphan from the war. i needed a stable boy and he needed a warm meal.”

“and you brought him to my house,” felix presses.

sylvain throws his hands up. “he’s jumpy, felix. he just joined me. i figured he could use some time away from the gossiping servants.”

“i’m not your nanny,” felix snaps, but he returns his sword to its scabbard, and sylvain brightens.

“how about some food? i’m starving.” felix looks unconcerned. sylvain amends, “aymer is starving.”

felix pulls his other sword out of the wood by the doorway and grunts. he appraises the blade for any signs of dulling. “i’m not your servant, either.”

“is the kitchen this way?” sylvain asks, ignoring him as he steps on through. he gives felix a clear target of his head, his back.

 _turn around_ , a voice in felix’s head begs. _turn around and fight me, or i’ll slit your throat_. _turn around. turn around. turn around_.

sylvain doesn’t turn around.

loosing the breath he didn’t realise he was holding, felix hesitates, then follows him in with a heated curse.

* * *

venetia prepares his meals. sometimes. they split it 50/50, on days where bloodlust haunts him and evenings when her tragedies get in her head. she lost a spouse and a sister in the time he and his father were gone, that quiet period where the war spun out of control.

felix owes her two lives and a well of sadness. so, felix cuts the tomatoes.

“looks like they became fast friends,” sylvain comments softly, watching aymer marvel at felix’s collection of swords on the wall. venetia is spinning tales about each one for the boy to immerse himself in, but half of them are complete bullshit.

felix makes a distracted sound. for some reason or another, he’s found himself making a dish he and byleth used to cook together in the dining hall. he squashes down the memories by cracking the garlic open under his fist.

sylvain continues. “he likes swords. a lot. he told me he used to think about becoming a knight, but now he doesn’t have to.”

felix holds his breath again and kicks up a fire, smoke wafting in his face.

“not unless he wants to, i guess,” sylvain muses. “no one should be forced to fight. not for their land or their lives.”

“...”

“felix?”

“shut your mouth,” felix grumbles, “or i’m going to slam your face into this pyre.”

sylvain chuckles. aymer looks at them, and he gives the boy a lazy wave.

felix shuts his eyes to the sound and smell of sizzling vegetables. he thinks about amputations sealed shut by fire to stave off death by blood loss, and other horrors they saw in their years at war.

he opens his eyes, and dinner is served.

* * *

“close the door,” sylvain asks.

“why.”

the moonlight cuts itself on sylvain’s carefree smile. he sheds the last of his layers, sitting down on felix’s bed. “i don’t want aymer to hear us.”

for good measure, felix locks the door. sylvain purrs in what he imagines is an attempt at being sexy. felix thinks about chucking him out the window.

“any last requests?” felix says, snuffing out the candelabra, pushing sylvain down. sylvain’s eyes twinkle. felix hasn’t shed his clothes, and he has six knives on him.

“don’t let me bleed out until i’m about to finish,” sylvain winks.

it sets a crude angle of a frown on felix’s face. he’s not really there when he’s taking off his gloves, when sylvain is kissing at the scars on his palm. he’s drifting somewhere else while sylvain opens himself up on his fingers. there’s a live body gasping under him, scraping at his shoulders and breaking open the skin while felix rocks into him, but it doesn’t really feel like he’s… present.

his head’s filled with cotton and his tongue’s drenched in sweat. his connection to his limbs is fuzzy, and there’s a pressure at the centre of his head, right between his eyes. sylvain makes an injured face-- a pleasured face. felix is thinking about driving the knife right through his heart and then slitting his own neck. thrust, anger, rock, guilt, press, death, need, connection.

“hey,” sylvain says all of a sudden.

“what,” felix replies, tasting blood.

“look at me.” sylvain takes his hands and makes him stop. felix blinks at him slowly. reality doesn’t crash through the window of his addled brain but knocks gently. “it’s okay to feel bad.”

“i don’t,” felix begins, veins hot but voice hollow, “want to hear that from you. i don’t want to hear anything from you.”

“you’re doing so good,” sylvain beckons, felix sliding into him quietly again, “you’re making such a difference. you don’t have to prove yourself ever again.”

felix chokes on the memory of towering giants and blazing lights.

“you haven’t hurt me at all,” sylvain whispers, “and you love me, and i came to see you because i love you too.”

stupid, empty words. stupid promises. stupid memories. felix punches him weakly in the chest.

“i’m not going to die, and you’re not going to die, and everything’s okay. you love me.”

“mm.”

“say it,” sylvain encourages.

“... i love you,” felix grits out. despite the sincerity, despite its truth, it’s still so -- it’s hard. he gets swept up in sylvain’s smile and the way he hugs him to his chest.

“me too, me too. happy i came?”

felix grunts.

“happy i’m coming--”

felix smacks him again, and sylvain forgets himself in heated moans.

* * *

felix wakes up, and venetia is there.

sylvain is gone.

“he looted your study,” venetia reports to her groggy duke, wiping at his crusty eyes and hair sticking up every which direction, “stole four days’ worth of supplies, a portrait of your professor, and a sword.”

felix pauses. “which one.”

“the golden one gifted to you by his majesty on the day you received your title.”

“let him have it.”

“as for other damages…”

venetia trails off, and felix rubs his eyes open to see aymer standing nervously in the doorway. he looks scared stiff when felix stares at him, like he expects to have his head lopped off for existing.

“s-sir duke,” aymer stammers, “i was told i’m to be your new apprentice.”

“what.”

“your new apprentice,” venetia echoes.

“... venetia.”

“yes, felix?”

“what did he take from the study?”

“your wax seal and the letter you were writing him.” venetia doesn’t even blink. “he attempted to pen you a reply, but i told him it was not necessary and i would deliver his message in his stead.”

“and?” felix commands impatiently.

“‘ha, ha. you snooze, you lose. treat my boy right and make him a real knight! last night was a real delight. yours in love, sylvain gautier.’”

felix’s hands physically tremble as he fights the urge to pick up a sword. venetia is biting the inside of her lip, fighting the urge to smile.

aymer breaks in. “sir duke, shall i go?”

felix sighs, and he shakes his head. “to the dining room. venetia, get him some food and make him ready for training.”

aymer looks like a shining beacon of hope and delight. venetia shuttles him away, far out of the grasp of felix’s wrath. “as you wish.”

felix gives himself three minutes to brood, to keep himself from declaring war on gautier territory.

“i’ll kill him next time,” he promises himself, getting out of bed to make himself decent. an apprentice and a larger household was the last thing he wanted. sylvain hadn’t even stayed through the morning to let felix kick him out properly.

a horrible philanderer of a margrave, that man, stirring up rumours and dropping people like sacks of potatoes without even asking.

he really deserves to die, felix muses, pulling his hair back, banding it high to his head like he used to, when there was still a reason to train.

war is gone and the remnants remain. felix attracts tragedies.

sylvain tries so hard to end his life on the tip of his blade. but that day is far-fetched and far away, disappearing fast in the plain snow, soaking up painful memories and healing one itch at a time.


End file.
